


The Morning Paper

by MarshmallowMcGonagall



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Grief, M/M, Sirius Black in Azkaban
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 10:55:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20993657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarshmallowMcGonagall/pseuds/MarshmallowMcGonagall
Summary: The morning edition of the Daily Prophet arrives in the days after James and Lily are killed by Voldemort.





	The Morning Paper

The kitchen window was open and the night’s sky was clear. And there was Sirius, as dawn waited patiently behind the horizon for another hour or so, the brightest star in the sky. To the left and a little below Orion. On the kitchen floor of his parents’ cottage, Remus waited. It was too cold to keep the window open and the owls had lessened but he couldn’t crawl up from the floor again. The stone tile floor hungered for the November bite and stole warmth quicker than he could find it.

An owl swept into the kitchen and Remus could make out the rolled up morning edition of the Daily Prophet. The owl perched on the back of a nearby chair and Remus fumbled with frozen fingers to remove the paper. He dug through his pockets to find enough Sickles. He didn’t know how much longer he could afford paper cuts. Pages to turn and threads of pain to be traced through the columns of celebration. Voldemort was gone. So were James and Lily. Sirius, too. No news of Peter. And then there was Harry. Alive. He had defeated Voldemort. And been celebrated in how he became an orphan. Celebrated. There were inches about the tragedy but pages about the celebrations. Pages.

They hadn’t found Sirius’s body. Who had done it? Who had ratted out his location? No one was meant to know. Old magic. Powerful. Protective. Now everyone was gone. Sickles in the pouch on the owl’s leg, the owl flew out of the kitchen. Remus’s nose was cold. His limbs tingled but his nose was properly cold. He rubbed his face and had no energy to shiver. The cold was a blanket in itself and moving seemed only to bring it closer. He lit a lamp and looked down at the rolled up paper.

No.

Sirius was dead.

No.

Sirius wouldn't betray James and Lily.

No.

Sirius wouldn't hurt Harry.

No.

Sirius hated Voldemort.

No.

Those curls.

The paper unfurled as if of its own volition. Remus knew. No headline necessary. Prisoner number on the board clutched in hand. Sleeves pushed up. No brand. Still Voldemort’s man. Tattoos peering out from beneath the Azkaban uniform. His eyes were all wrong and still they were his. Not a prank gone wrong and begging on his knees but a killer in prison his face painted like a mask with maniacal glee. And still it was him. Still him looking out. From his island prison in the sea.

Remus read, and read again. Each line of newsprint another torture. The front page a sprawl of betrayal.

No. Yes. No. Yes.

Remus’s fingers dug into his head. Even Peter was dead.

When had everything changed? How long had Sirius been planning it? Remus had shared his bed with Sirius. When had Sirius turned? He hadn’t always been Voldemort’s man. He couldn’t have been. He couldn’t -

Had his understanding of Sirius been so poor? Had he known him so little?

The swing from being a trusted friend to committing the ultimate betrayal. From trusted lover to mass murderer. No. Merlin, no. They had called a halt. Too many moments of worry elicited from the creeping paranoia bred by war. Had he been right to say enough? It had felt so wrong. Not a gut reaction but flinching panic. A twitch of unease which had grown malignant amidst whispered rumours. No real hunch to pin real hesitation. And it hadn’t stopped them tearing apart. A landslide that gathered speed and crashed into the sea. A collapse that couldn’t be stopped, not so late in the game. The aching loss and the terrifying wave. It crashed down then. Remus tumbled forward onto all fours as if to transform but instead he heaved. Retching with no control. Just the urge to rid himself of the poison on the pages of the Daily Prophet.

How long ago had Sirius turned? Why hadn’t he noticed? In daylight or in bed? There must have been a tell. There must have been something he had missed. They couldn’t know each other so well and not see that kind of change. Perhaps that was sign enough. That it hadn’t been meant to be. That they weren’t meant to last. He wasn’t the right one. Then why did that feel so wrong? Remus screamed in guttural agony that he could let the notion of loving Sirius push past hating the man who had destroyed everything. James and Lily were dead. Harry was an orphan. Voldemort had aimed the curse but Sirius had handed them over on a silver platter. Even Peter was gone. And worst of all, Sirius had destroyed the person Remus had once thought he’d loved and been worthy of being loved by.

Remus sank down. Hands over his head. Elbows on the floor. This was wrong, all wrong. James and Lily weren’t coming back. Harry was an orphan. An orphan and he was gone. Lost somewhere in the muggle world to muggles who hated him. Everyone was gone.

The stone floor scraping his face as he shook, Remus didn’t even want why. He wanted when. When had Sirius turned? Let him rest in peace knowing he hadn’t loved a traitor. Would he be a traitor by default? They were friends, everyone knew. But lovers? Remus wracked his brain for who knew. The shirt Remus wore still smelled of Sirius. Remus collapsed onto his side. The heaving sobs a curse he couldn’t stop. The paper inches from him. Let it be a nightmare. Let Sirius walk through the door. But Remus already knew. The topography of Sirius’s body an aching absence from Remus’s shaking fingers. The tremors and quakes and shifts between them. Remus knew where he was in the world by that landscape. By the position of the stars in the sky. Sirius had been a constant. His place unchanging in his constellation. There wouldn’t be another picture. Sirius’s history was written. A traitor. Always or never. The proof was in the paper. The cold night wind blew and pages of the paper fluttered.

Remus craned his neck to look out the kitchen window.

He could see Sirius.


End file.
